


Red

by anomalously



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, im trying to cope i guess, kinda sorta parallel of 4x07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 13:44:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3812695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalously/pseuds/anomalously
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Mickey sees red and red and red. He feels heat; feels like he wants to crawl out of his skin. He drops his hand from the doorknob and turns around to look at Ian, to really look at him for the first time in three months, exactly three months."</p>
<p>-I've been in denial about 5x12. This is me trying to acknowledge that mess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red

His legs wobbled under him as he made his way down the alley. The skin that stretched over his knuckles was broken and bloody, leaving a staccato trail behind him. There was a metallic taste in his mouth that was taking over the aftertaste of the shitty whiskey that he drank too much of; a haze settled over him from the oxy’s. He doesn't really like to take pills too much, but they were pain killers, so maybe they would make the ache go away.

Mickey Milkovich can drink, probably more than most people. But it’s been two months, three weeks and six days since Ian. Everyone thinks Mickey is trying to drown himself. They might be right.

There’s a sharp pain in his side; in his hip; in his jaw; in his arms. Everything hurts, inside and out. It wont stop hurting. Mickey doesn't want to feel like this anymore. He’s so fucking mad. He’s mad and he’s hurt and he doesn't understand. He doesn't think he will ever really understand. Nothing made sense anymore.

He stumbles against the brick wall, slides down to the dirty ground. He takes deep breaths and presses his hands to his eyes, trying to keep the tears from falling. He doesn't want to cry anymore, is furious that he’s still fucking hurting. It’s not fair. It’s not  _fair_.

Mickey reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the small bottle of whiskey. It’s there and gone the next, burning him up on the inside. Maybe if he’s lucky it will burn away that red hair and freckles and long pale limbs.

He’s never been this drunk before. His vision is all fucked up… blurry or doubled or something, he doesn't know what’s wrong with his eyes, but he can’t focus. Even when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out except a pathetic string of grunts.

He’s not sure when, but at some point he passes out in that alley.

When he wakes up, he’s in a bed. Everything hurts worse than before. He refuses to open his eyes, afraid that if he does, he’ll fucking puke. He makes himself fall back asleep, hoping to power through the hangover. Everything hurts.

The smell of coffee wakes him up again. This time he opens his eyes. Blinding light. He covers his face with his hands, wincing when the simple action brings more pain. His hands feel stiff and swollen, barely able to fold them up into a proper fighting fist. He sighs, stretching out his body, he feels like the Tin Man before Dorothy came along.

It takes him a moment to realize that he’s not in his bed. He can tell by the smell of the room, weed and cigarettes and something else he can’t entirely name, but that differentiates his room from Ian’s.

Stomach bottoms out. Heat rips across his chest. Why?

“I found you by a dumpster last night.”

Mickey hasn't heard that voice in… three months, now. Exactly three months. He turns over, looks at Ian leaning against the frame of the bunk bed. His hands are shoved in his pockets, looking at Mickey like he would look at a lost dog.

His teeth ache from all the pressure that Mickey is putting on them. He sits up too fast, but steels his body not to sway. He needs to get out of there, needs to get away from Ian. Away from Ian’s hair and his face and the way he quietly takes over a room just by walking into it.

“Mick…”

Mickey shakes his head too hard. He can’t take this, needs to get the fuck out of there. He braces a hand on the dresser and stands. Ian reaches out to him but Mickey shoves his hands away from him; he shoves them hard, their skin touching for a second; it burns, but not in a good way, not this time. Ian tries again, only to be met with the same reaction.

“Mick, please.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey grunts, heavy and vicious. His tongue feels to big for his mouth; he doesn't trust himself beyond those two words.

Ian reaches over to the dresser, picks up a cup of coffee and offers it to Mickey.

Mickey stares at it, stares at Ian, back at the cup. He stops himself from taking it and dumping the hot liquid on Ian’s head. He stops himself from breaking down. He stops himself from asking Ian why. Mickey breathes hard. Stares hard. Walks past Ian, into the hallway and down the stairs, his feet falling hard.

Debbie is in the kitchen when he gets downstairs. She looks at him; she’s been crying; she looks different. He wonders why, but doesn't ask. It’s not his fucking problem, not anymore. He wonders if it was ever really his problem. He feels Ian behind him.

When Mickey curls his hand around the knob of the back door, Ian grabs his shoulder.

“I’m back on my meds,” he says; his voice is soft, his fingers curling into the fabric of Mickey’s gray blood-stained jacket. “Have been for a couple weeks now.”

Mickey sees red and red and  _red_. He feels heat; feels like he wants to crawl out of his skin. He drops his hand from the doorknob and turns around to look at Ian, to really look at him for the first time in three months, exactly three months. 

He doesn't trust himself to open his mouth yet. Ian stares back at him, his bottom lip pulled in between his teeth like he had something to be fucking nervous about.

There is nothing more that he wants to do than to hit Ian. But he doesn’t. He won’t, not this time. The last time they threw punches, he ended up pressed against a chain link fence with Ian behind him, mouthing at his neck while they fucked. Mickey knows that if he hits Ian, it’ll happen again; he can’t go through with that, not now. He’s too fucked up right now, too lost in his whiskey for the past three months, hasn't had any time to heal. He hasn't really let himself.

Mickey leaves the Gallagher house. His vision is blurry; he wipes at his eyes; everything hurts. It’s not fair.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, this was very short. Very.  
> I dunno, I just needed this for some reason.  
> No resolution to what happened, but I just, I dunno.


End file.
